Meeting my ex-wife in a wedding dress shop in Greenbelt, Makati, I sat there, dumbfounded; she glanced at me, then turned away, smiling faintly. At that moment, I knew I was really just an outsider in her story.

Three years ago, I got divorced. My ex-wife — Lira — left after months of exhaustion because we couldn’t find common ground. At that time, I was young, hot-tempered, and not strong enough to take care of a family. We broke up in silence, without any arguments, but the void left in my heart was endless.

Time passed, and I met a new lover — Janelle. She was gentle, easygoing, and didn’t ask for much. When I decided to get married, I thought it was a chance to start over, to pack up what had been broken behind. That day, I took Janelle to a famous bridal atelier in Makati. She eagerly tried on each dress; I sat on one side, waiting and worrying because my old marriage had caused me so much pain.

Then life was ironic. I looked up and saw a familiar figure walking in. Lira was with an older man, his hair was streaked with gray but he was elegant and graceful. The staff greeted them and invited them into the VIP fitting area. I was stunned. She also saw me, just glanced at me and then turned away, as if they had never met.

Lira was now very different from before: slim figure, slightly wavy hair falling to her shoulders, delicately made-up face. She smiled brightly as she talked to the staff, her eyes sparkling with happiness. I suddenly remembered the old days — when she had to save every penny, when we argued over money, when her face was haggard after worries. The scene before my eyes made me both surprised and bitter…
The man with her was probably twice my age, maybe even older. He looked at Lira with loving eyes. My ex-wife was about to marry a rich man, and I sat there, feeling like a faded photo in her old album.

Looking at Janelle spinning in her white dress, my heart was heavy. I knew — if I had been more mature, more loving — maybe things would have been different. I had lost a good woman. But amid that sadness, there was still a strange consolation: although Lira was well-off, her fiancé was old enough to be my father and uncle; as for me, at least I was still young, could still walk beside a young woman and still have a chance to make amends with this life.

Leaving the store that day, I was silent the whole way. Janelle didn’t understand, just giggled and showed off a few photos of her trying on wedding dresses. Perhaps life is fair in its own way: everyone has to pay the price for their choices. Looking at my lover, I suddenly felt worried — was I ready to enter a second marriage, or would I continue to repeat the same mistakes and regret it?

That night, I sat alone on Ayala Avenue watching the traffic go by, telling myself the truth: If I am an outsider in someone else’s story, then learn to be a good protagonist in my own. Only then will the ring no longer be a loop — but a new promise.

— The Ring Is No Longer a Loop

The next morning, I returned to Greenbelt to get the final measurements for my suit. The rain had just stopped in Makati, the palm leaves were still wet, the bells of the Sto. Niño de Paz chapel rang softly across the lake. I intended to walk straight, but I glanced at the glass door of the atelier.

Lira stood alone in front of the mirror. Not the fancy, bejeweled dress from last night, but a plain, square-necked dress. The tailor was adjusting each stitch. She saw me in the mirror. We were separated by a pane of glass and three years of our lives.

I nodded slightly. She nodded too, then suddenly signaled the clerk to open the door.

“Are you okay?” — Lira asked first, her voice calm.

“Okay. And… congratulations,” I said, trying to keep the “congratulations” from shaking.

She smiled. “Thank you. He was… kind. Not for the money. For peace.” She hesitated, then added: “You’re different. Stand up straighter. Speak more slowly. Back then… if we had known how to speak more slowly… it might have hurt less.”

I smiled, neither denying nor clinging. “We’ve both gone our separate ways.” I bowed my head: “Thank you for teaching me how to lose without resentment.”

She held out her hand. A brief handshake. No apology, no forgiveness. Just putting down an old spool of thread.

In the afternoon, I met Janelle on a bench outside the Ayala Triangle. The office workers had finished their shift, yellow lights casting a yellow glow on the lawn.

“Last night I was… overwhelmed,” I began. “I met Lira. But overwhelmed not by her. It was because I saw my old self in the mirror—the man who rushed through one marriage, then rushed into another to fill the void.”

Janelle was silent. I continued:

“I don’t want to use you as a Band-Aid on an old wound. I want to heal first. I want to marry you out of responsibility, not out of fear of loneliness. If you agree, we can postpone the wedding for three months. We can sign up for Pre-Cana at Greenbelt Chapel, and go to counseling every week. If after three months, you feel I’m still stuck, you have the right to leave me, without any guilt.”

She looked straight at me, long enough for me to hear the cars rumbling on Ayala Avenue. Then she sighed: “Thank you for being honest. I don’t want to be a ‘replacement.’ If I have to back off, I have to learn. If not, I’ll leave.”

I nodded. For the first time, I felt happy not running ahead, but behind difficult decisions.

Three months later, I sat in a tiny counseling room with pictures of Sto. Niño on the wall. I talked about my anger, about my father’s silence, about how I learned to shut down when I was helpless. Janelle talked about her fear of abandonment, about her childhood in Quezon City, listening to her parents arguing through the wall. We learned very small sentences: “Anh dang lo”, “Em dang so”, instead of “Anh luo”, “Em khong bo”.

At the end of the Pre-Cana course, the priest asked: “Why did you choose each other?” I did not mention youth or compensation. I said: “For responsible peace.” Janelle smiled: “Because I know when to stop and move on.”

We were not flashy. The wedding had only twenty guests, taking place on a sunny morning. I stood before the small altar in the Greenbelt chapel, thinking Lira’s older fiance as a distant thought? No — Lira was not there; she was no longer part of my story. But before the ceremony, the receptionist suddenly handed me an envelope: “For you.”

Inside was a hastily written greeting card: “Happiness is not about winning or losing. I wish you both peace. — L.” I put the card in my pocket, suddenly feeling strangely light.

The priest asked: “Do you accept this person as your wife…?” I took a deep breath: “Yes.” Not just Janelle, but also the kinder version of myself.

Occasionally, I still met Lira at the Glorietta supermarket. We nodded, our greetings were curt but not sour. Next to her was a silver-haired man, pushing a cart full of vegetables. In my hand was the list Janelle had left: eggs, butter, flour. Two parallel worlds, not colliding, just running smoothly forward.

On a weekend night, Janelle and I stopped by Roxas Boulevard, sitting and watching the purple sunset. She leaned on my shoulder, whispering: “Thank you for not turning me into a medicine for your longing.” I took her hand and replied, “Thank you for not letting me hide behind the words ‘start over’.”

In my pocket were two plain gold rings, without stones. I suddenly realized that what I had said to myself on Ayala Avenue had come true: the ring was no longer a loop, but a bracelet. It did not lock anyone in the past, but only kept the two of us warm in the present.

At night, Makati was quiet. I turned off the lights and saw my reflection in the glass — no longer the man sitting frozen in front of an unfamiliar wedding dress, but the man standing upright in front of the mirror, knowing how to look slowly, speak slowly, love slowly. Beside me, Janelle slept on her side, breathing evenly. Outside, the city was still running; here, peace had caught up.